(the walls of) all this inner strife
by tinted lens
Summary: Collette looks a little unfamiliar to him when she's this close, he thinks. — Rusk/Collette. Incest.


**title: **(the walls of) all this inner strife

**summary: **Collette looks a little unfamiliar to him when she's this close, he thinks.

**disclaimer: **not mine~

**a/n: **I have no idea what this story means — sorry if it's crap. Also, incestuous themes saturate the entire story. Title & lyrics from the bird & the bee.

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—_and for a moment, all was lost  
but then the rain fell from the sky_

_it was magic  
couldn't believe how it came down  
puddles of water all around_

_but when the clouds were finally gone  
it seemed tragic._

-x-

{the walls of}  
**all this inner strife**

-x-  


"Have you ever, have you ever —"

She's singing, in a soft, innocent childlike voice that can only come from a mocking intention, eyes shady and half-aware, half-unconcious. Pale flower petals are in a mess among her hair, between the gaps of her folded legs, strewn about her tiny hands; he tries not to read into it, look for things that isn't there, asking questions with no coherent answer.

"— fallen in love?"

A beat passes. He blinks, shifting uncomfortably, awkwardly, a little to the left from the grassy patch he once occupied, not entirely sure on what to answer her query — not entirely sure if he can process her words. It's a little hard to do with her, sometimes, and he mentally scolds himself for never mustering up the courage to point it out. Just because.

He decides not to put too much thought into it — isn't that what she'd expect? A honest answer?, he rationalizes, and settles on a polite laugh to break the silence between them. She laughs back, almost sympathetically, and he thinks that might be because she already _knows_. Of course she does.

"No." he answers, shortly, as honestly as he thought possible. It's supposed to be easy, he thinks, to answer a simple question. His voice still strains when he says the word, though. But he thinks nothing of it, and blames it on the complicated process of growing up or hormones or something — chemistry's never been his favorite field of study, anyway. "I haven't." he tilts his head a little to the side, just enough to see her face, illuminated by the sunset. Her eyes are surprisingly darker in light; he's never noticed it before. Not that he's actively trying to.

She chuckles. He feels a little offended by this, as if she's telling him an inside joke he was never a part of, just to spite him. As if she is looking down on him.

She lets go of her grip on the ground, sending her body falling down the soft blades of grass littering the soil around her. He wonders, vaguely, if he should do the same. He doesn't.

Her sight is fixed atop the skies, an endless sea of reds and yellows and oranges, colors reminding him of the fire he's used to cook so very often. He's burned himself on such a flame countless times too, he recalls, his fingertips subconciously tracing over a faint blotch of discoloration staining his palm, an old memento of who he was.

He can't help but feel a little sad for that, somehow — it's something he can't quite pinpoint, an odd variable in his flow of normalcy.

Then,

"Too bad." she finally answers, sadly, mockingly, delivering a dull punchline to an awaited joke. "I really thought that —"

Her breath hitches ever so slightly, and she never does finish the sentence. He doesn't ask her to, either.

And with that, she lifts herself up and walks away, flower petals in her hair and all. He watches her go and stays there, still, for what seems to be forever — until the vibrant shades of sunset fade away into simple darkness, the starless sky and faraway pricks of city lights staring back at his empty, questioning gaze.

He goes home to a worried family and a plate of cold dinner — and when he refuses to explain why he'd come late, his punishment, one might say — is, of course, soup. Cold soup, in fact. So cold that even Collette might pass up on the offer to devour it if given the chance.

In the end, he decides to graciously accept his defeat, just to settle the matter silently, peacefully. The way it should be dealt with. He's only an aspiring pastry chef, nothing more or less or anything between that — it's just what is expected from someone like him. Sometimes he wonders what would be if he subverts their expectations — not that he'd do it, though. He's Rusk, after all, so the speculations are always kept to himself, and the unmarked margins of his cookbooks.

But as he puts away the dishes, he catches a glimpse of Collette, looking at him from the creaking edge of the half-open door with an expression he can't quite describe — but he knows that she _knows_, too, he's sure of it, even if she doesn't bring it up as they get ready for bedtime, hot chocolate on the table and all. He can already start to feel the uneasiness radiating from her as they silently sip on the warmth, and even more so when he notices the remaining drops of chocolate left unconsumed on the bottom of the cup.

He shakes his head, and tries to recollect his thoughts, landing face first onto the smothering pillow. He ends up falling asleep with a cookbook sitting on his lap, waking up too early in the morning with the recipe for layered gelatin cake perfectly memorized in his mind.

-x-

It's halfway into their shifts when Collette takes it upon herself to speak.

"Rusk," Collette says, her arms folded neatly in front of her chest, as if a visual emphasis, "Is there something wrong?" Her face is too close, too warm, and he can see every shade of red staining her cheeks (& her lips but he doesn't let himself think such thoughts) and the color reminds him a little of tomatoes — and for once he entertains himself with the idea that the color might not bother him as much as he thought it would.

("_Have you ever, have you ever —_")

"Nothing," he blurts out, stepping backwards, his back hitting a table. His voice sounds harsh, withdrawn. He just hopes that she doesn't notice anything. "I mean — I could ask you the same thing — what's up with your attitude lately? You've been, how should I put this, _different_. Like you're someone else."

("_I really thought that —_")

She shakes away, guilty, eyes casting down towards the floor. Her mouth opens to say something indecipherable.

Then, a customer walks in and the moment is lost.

(and later, he makes a point to leave a plate of curry on her bedroom table, along with a post-it note with some nonsense about lacking Curry Powder or vegetables or chocolate hastily scrawled on it. Like it means something.)

-x-

He's honestly surprised when he sees Karina watching over the store.

He does it the way he always does — grab whatever he needs from the shelves and hand over the money to her, 10% off and everything. But, not really — because this time his eyes are pasted on her, her every movement, trying to look into her actions for a coherent result.

"You're already out?"

Her innocent question throws him off guard, making him nearly drop his groceries on the floor. He can't figure out why.

"Yeah — I was trying on a new recipe, and kind of botched it a few times." he replies, setting down the pile of ingredients on the tabletop. "How much is it?"

She pauses. "…4720 G."

He puts the money down. "Thanks."

She smiles, sleepily. He tries not to look at her, and smiles back.

"Sorry," he bites his tongue, choking at his words, and turns away. He can't figure out why, exactly, this is being so hard for him. Especially since she is decidedly unfazed by th entire situation, coldly gazing at the back of him all the while.

"I know." she whispers, when he is halfway out the door. "Me too."

Then, silence.

He walks back home with a sharp pang in his body —

— area unspecified.

("Want some?" she invites, pointing to a half-finished plate of still-warm riceballs sitting idly on the table. He nods, shakily, and shoves it into his mouth even if he isn't feeling particularly hungry today. Just to give her a sense of normalcy.

Collette looks pleased — and for once, that's enough for him.)

-x-

"Can I ask you a question?"

Her hands are fidgeting, playing with the hems of her cloth, loose ringlets flowing past her shoulders. She's letting her hair down, today, and he doesn't bother wondering about whatever it's supposed to symbolize — he tries to focus more on the tablecloth she's creasing with her tightening grip on it, or the soup stains that still linger on the floor from all the times he spilled it, unintentional or otherwise — eyes on anything but her.

The restaurant is empty and they're completely alone — his father's gone to a neighboring city for "business reasons", she says, and he can't help but bring it up in his mind at the worst possible moment.

It takes him a moment before he realizes he's failed to answer her.

"Yeah, sure." It sounds a little too natural than it should, but she doesn't seem to notice as much as he does. Maybe he's too perceptive, or something. She used the word once — it's something about vegetables, the conversation. Maybe he's involved too. "What is it?" he finishes, stealing a brief, innocent glance her way. Just a glance. Normal.

Sometimes he wishes he can be better at hiding himself.

She visibly tenses, resting her hands on the sides of her hips. "Hypothetically," she begins, tentatively, nervously, and he instantly concludes that the situation is in fact _not_, "Can you spend your life constantly in denial? Like, always running away from something?"

It's a complicated question coming out from someone seemingly so simple — a question he can't handle answering because of all the irony hidden underneath her words, even with all the jumping jacks and tiptoes around every uncomfortable subject.

He swallows a lump in his throat and a taste remarkably similar to cherry tomatoes rises up, invades his tongue, and for a second he reverts back to childhood, of memories about table scratches and bubbly laughter. That's as far as he can remember, though. Everything else beyond that is a blank.

"Why are you asking me?" he chokes out, belatedly. "I'm not — I'm just not the kind of person who'd know." And that's all it took.

Sometimes he wishes he can be a better liar.

She looks hurt, but quickly regains her compousure — as if she knows this is going to happen, or something along those lines.

"I know. But it's, just — I kind of thought you'd understand, you know?" she replies meekly. "Sorry."

She gets up to walk away and — because he is Rusk and she is Collette and they have nothing beyond a tie of blood between them — he lets her.

-x-

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Months pass away and soon enough it's only two weeks before her birthday — he's already starting to sketch out ideas, general guidelines for what he's getting for her. He's thinking of giving her something generic, unoriginal — something she knows he knows she'll like, something predictable with no meaning beyond simple affection.

Why is it so hard to do, he muses.

-x-

So. After careful deliberation, he decides to get her something made of rice, _of course_ — something he can't remember because in hindsight, the detail isn't really that important.

(because all he can make out of the evening are her tiny hands and her short stature, fingers clutching onto the edges of the kitchen counter, shoulders shaking and a faint twinkle in her eye flickering for a fleeting moment, after everything is said and done.)

He wakes up the next morning, dazed and confused. His mouth tastes like toothpaste and mouthwash for the rest of the day.

He doesn't mention it, and neither does she. It's as if it never happened.

(even though it did, it did and there's nothing they can do to change that.)

Her birthday cake is left half-eaten in the fridge.

(he can't bring himself to eat it because it tastes _just like her_ — soft and light and fluffy and oh-so innocent — and when he peeks inside the next week to see it stolen, he thinks of it as a fitting, sudden closure.)

-x-

Nothing happens, afterwards.

He forgives himself, and she forgives him — everything is the way it was, as if it was all a vague dream.

-x-

("_Sorry, —_"

"_It's okay._" The gap between them narrows, until there is no distance separating their faces — she looks a little unfamiliar to him when she's this close, he thinks, but everything else about her stays the same, even after everything that's happened.

She giggles when it's over. "_Next time, save it for someone you love_." she grins, and disappears down the stairs.

He doesn't wonder.)

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End file.
